Through the Darkness
by 1701dragonflies
Summary: All she sees is the dark, all she hears is the moans of the undead until somewhere, through the darkness, something else. The distant, throaty roar of a motorcycle. Post 2.13. I own nothing but my imagination.


Through the Darkness

Summary: Slightly different ending to 2.13. She runs through this never-ending darkness of gloom and death, the heavy gun bag bumping bruises on the backs of her legs. She can't remember what its like to not feel the burn at her throat or the tear at her lungs. She can't remember how to walk without running, how to look without looking forwards, backwards, side to side. All she sees is the dark, all she hears is the moans of the undead until somewhere, through the darkness, something else. The distant, throaty roar of a motorcycle.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my imagination, I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

A/N: Literally bashed this out in one sitting. I'm really not sure about the ending, and the whole thing probably needs a good edit but I wanted to get it out there, because I don't know how I'm going to survive until the Autumn with no _Walking Dead_…..

When I wrote the motorcycle parts I was listening to Crawl by Kings of Leon, it popped on my iTunes and it seemed quite fitting!

###

Darkness. That's all she sees. The dark and the fog and the gloom and hands that come at her from front and back and side to side. Hands that are cold and clammy and yearn to tear into her flesh like she was nothing more than a slab of meat on a butcher table. She runs through this never-ending darkness of gloom and death, the heavy gun bag bumping bruises against the backs of her legs. She was the only one with the forethought to pick up the bag and there's a part of her that will be almost glad when the ammo runs out because she'll be free of its weight.

It comes in handy, though: a walker grabs her hard and sinks his teeth downwards, meeting rough canvas and a Sheriff's logo rather than warm, exhausted flesh. Its not a lot of time, but it buy her enough to jab her bloodied knife into its head without second thought.

Somewhere through the moans and the swirl of the fog, she strains her ears to hear something, anything other than the sounds of the undead. She strains to hear some indication that they haven't just abandoned her to her fate, that all the hours she spent shooting and keeping watch count for something. She strains to hear some chance that she isn't utterly alone.

###

"We can't just leave her." Daryl speaks quietly into the night, his voice soft lest they attract any neighbouring walkers. "Ain't right."

He's forgotten that he's speaking out of turn in the Ricktatorship. "Ain't nothin' we can do about it now." Rick says, his voice equally as quiet. Daryl wonders if he speaks quietly so not to attract walkers' attention, or because he's not quite willing to accept the words himself.

Daryl considers very carefully what he's about to say next but figures, he's begun now so he may as well say it anyway. "Ya went back for my brother." He says at length, immediately feeling Rick's spine stiffen even though the two men are on opposite sides of the dying campfire. "Ya went back for Merle when everyone told ya he was worthless. Andrea ain't worthless."

"The two situations aren't the same." Rick insists. In the fading fire his face looks old and worn out in a way that Daryl hasn't seen on him before. He carries the weight of their small, battered world on his shoulders and right he doesn't know where to turn.

"I know that." Daryl says. "I'm just sayin' … we're weaker without Andrea."

The two men fall silent as Lori shifts and cries in her sleep, although Daryl isn't quite sure what she's crying about. Her husband is safe, her son is safe and as far as they know so is the kid inside of her that grows a little bigger each day. So what is she crying for? For Shane? For herself? For everything and all that they've lost these past few days?

He tries to imagine Andrea crying in that forest: back hunched against rough tree bark, tears of frustration slipping down her cheeks as she realises that her beloved, gifted pistol has finally run out of ammunition. Its as easy to see as it is difficult but it only strengthens his conviction that they need to go back. They need her. No-one should get left behind any more, isn't that what's Rick's always saying? That they need to live as a family? Daryl doesn't know much about real families but he's pretty sure that abandoning Andrea isn't familial behaviour.

"And what would you have me do?" Rick asks. "Drag us all back to the farm and into God knows' what?"

Daryl doesn't say anything to that, but when Rick wakes (he didn't even know that he'd fallen asleep), T-Dog's on watch and Daryl's motorcycle is gone.

###

Her pistol finally runs dry some thirty feet from the treeline. There isn't enough water in her body to cry over it as she tosses it into the gun bag and pauses to catch her breath. Its so dark she has to move by sight and touch rather than sight, thankful that Shane spent hours making her memorise the weight and feel of the different ammunition at their disposal.

She doesn't need her sight to feel that what she has isn't going to be enough, but she grabs what she can and leaves the bag, glad to finally be free of its weight. Her throat is dry and scratchy and she pulls a leaf out of her mouth, clawing at her throat as she tries to get air and moisture into her body. She can't remember what its like to not feel the burn at her throat or the tear at her lungs. She can't remember how to walk without running, how to look without looking forwards, backwards, side to side. All she sees is the dark, all she hears is the moans of the undead until somewhere, through the darkness, something else. The distant, throaty roar of a motorcycle.

###

Daryl isn't sure where to begin looking or at least, not really. Carol said that Andrea saved her by the house so he figures that its best to start there. Maybe she's managed to hide out somewhere until the worst passes. Maybe he'll find her sat on the front porch, Dale's rifle in hand and that hat she loved so much on her head, watching him approach. Hell, maybe she'll shoot him again, mistake him for a walker.

He doesn't want to think about the alternative. Not after Sophia and Dale.

"I thought you said that you were done looking for lost souls." Carol had said to him as he grabbed what ammo he could and made sure that his crossbow was fully loaded.

"Didn' realise ya were awake." He replies without turning around.

"You planning on slipping off, trying to find her?"

"Yup." Daryl says. He can't deal with Carol right now.

"You realise that she's probably dead, right?" Carol says. "Dead or worse."

Daryl's got no answer to that. Instead, he sits on his bike, revs the engine and is gone.

Its foggier and gloomier than he had expected and the bike's light struggles to illuminate more than several feet in front of him. The engine's loud, too loud in the grim undead silence that shrouds the forests around him. He passes several cars long since abandoned on the highway and prays that Andrea's managed to find shelter somewhere. He drives for what feels like hours, eyes and ears straining to hear something, anything that isn't the moans of the undead and the bristle and hum of the trees around him.

###

She runs blindly through the darkness, following the sounds of the motorcycle. To be sure, its moving closer but she isn't sure just how much closer. She can't feel her feet, or her knees, only the burn in her thighs and in her chest. The forest is thinning out; she can see some kind of light moving in from her right hand side. She opens her mouth and tries to cry out but no words come, nothing but a rasping, strangling sound.

She trips over a felled log as she finally clears the forest, sprawling and sliding through the dirt and gravel road that bisects this nightmarish forest in which she has become entangled. What's left of the skin on her hands shreds and blisters on the rough ground as she crawls and scrabbles, desperately trying to get up and cough up whatever's flown into her mouth. She has to keep moving, moving away from the never ending death that follows her without reason or thought.

The light gets brighter; even through the dark and the gloom Andrea has to squint and scrabble backwards on her back to get away. Her hands and feet feel wet and they groan in protest at the movement. The rifle's clattered out of her grip, to where she doesn't know. All she can hear is that throaty roar, a welcome respite from the low moans that fill the air around her but no less dangerous. As the roar grinds to a halt and she hears a voice calling her name, she realises then that while she's spent so long running from the undead she actually might have more to fear from this living, breathing human being who's grabbing her by her jacket and shaking her so hard she thinks she's going to fall apart at the seams.

###

Daryl isn't sure it's her at first. In fact, he thinks it might be a stray walker and almost readies his crossbow until he sees the rifle and the blonde hair and realises that – irony of ironies – he almost shot Andrea because he thought that she was a walker.

But he's found her. And she's alive, unbitten.

He stops the bike and steps off, his strides long and quick and he picks her up, calling her name. They don't have much time; he can hear walkers coming through the forest so he grabs the rifle and slings it over her body, shaking her as he tries to get her to communicate with him and using his hands to cover as much of her as he can, checking for bites, scratches and other wounds. His hands find her face and he pushes her dirty, scraggly hair out of her face, roughly cupping her jawline as he tries to ascertain just how dazed she is.

"Y'aright?" He asks, pulling her to her feet and dragging her towards the motorcycle. Thankfully her legs are more or less cooperating even if her mouth isn't, but he can't blame her. She's covered in mud and leaves and blood and her eyes are half-closed with fatigue and her voice is nothing more than a hoarse, dehydrated whisper.

Walkers come out of the forest then, ambling towards them. "Hold on!" Daryl shouts as he drags Andrea onto the bike behind him, praying that she has enough strength to hang on for the ride. Then they're gone, away from that forest of death and the never-ending swarm of walkers that crowd into every space to rip you apart.

Daryl isn't sure – the throb of the bike's engine is loud and Andrea's mouth is clearly very dry, but as they inch ever closer to their destination he's sure that her hands tighten just slightly across his chest and a hoarse "Thank you" escape her lips.

###

Andrea doesn't remember the motorcycle ride, not really. She knows that Daryl's behind the controls because she can see the crossbow and feels the seams of the angel wings at her cheek, but she doesn't remember the ride, not really. Her eyes roll into the back of her head every time she opens her eyes and sees the forest swirl and scream past them in a flurry of grey and green trees. Sometimes she feels like she's being pulled off the motorcycle by something (is it the wind or is the walkers that seem to come from everywhere?) until a large, warm hand grips hers and tugs it tighter around Daryl's chest. It's gone almost as soon as it's there, but she mimics his gesture and tightens her grip as hard as she's able, pressing her face into the leather vest and letting this small imitation of safety envelop her. Her hair has come loose from its ponytail and she feels it whip and race and swirl around them, splattering against Daryl's neck and back as the bike picks up speed and they leave the forest behind. She can't tell where they're going, but she inches her body closer to his, like she's trying to crawl inside him, her cheek pressed against the small inches of flesh that creep between his collar and his hair that is wet and slick and dark with sweat.

"Thank you." She murmurs.

She isn't sure, but she thinks that for just a fraction of a second, his hand leaves the handlebars to squeeze hers once more. Then it's gone and the bike speeds up again. And she closes her eyes, lets the wind whip through her hair and lets Daryl take her through the darkness while she pretends that they're somewhere else.

###

Andrea's almost asleep by the time they finally get back to their makeshift camp, her head pressed against his neck. Her arms have locked in place around his body and it takes Rick and T-Dog to lift her off the bike and move her to the fire.

Rick's face is torn between thunderous and thankful when he approaches Daryl. "You went back and got her." He says.

Daryl shrugs. "Ya said yourself that no-one gets left behind anymore."

###

Andrea isn't sure how long she's asleep, but when she finally wakes she's given a squirrel on a stick, some water, a knife and is told that they're moving on. Daryl just sits on his motorcycle and gestures to the back seat using his head, so she figures that her ride to wherever they're going has already been decided.

She doesn't mind. Right now she's too tired to care and she's so exhausted she's fairly convinced that she's forgotten how to drive and how to talk.

Its different, this time. Its still dark and gloomy outside but they have a few more supplies and Andrea's able to stare at the forests whipping past without feeling like she's unravelling. She's so tired all she can do is close her eyes but each time she does all she sees is never-ending loom and a darkness without end that snap her eyes open and make her suck hard on the air that races past them with fierce fury. The motorcycle is all hard metal and warm engines beneath her legs, and as she once more hangs on for dear life and presses her face against the worn angel wings that Daryl wears with oscillating degrees of ease and discomfort, she wonders if he's not so different to the machine that he rides. He, of all people came back for her, picked her up from the dirt and the gravel and the blood and sojourned her to safety.

The engine vibrations up and down her body aren't bad, either.

###

There aren't any tents anymore, so they all camp around the fire, alternating between sleep and watch. Andrea should be asleep but she isn't. Instead, she's sat next to Daryl as he takes his watch for that evening.

"Why did you come back for me, Daryl?" She asks softly.

He shifts awkwardly from his position (sat in a tree with a full view of their makeshift camp and its surrounding approaches) and considers her question. "Couldn't leave ya behind." He says finally. "No-one gets left behind any more. Plus …. You're good with a gun. We need that now more than ever." He finishes, his words a not-so-subtle nod to the fight he knows that she had with Lori only a few days' earlier. The one good thing to come out of this mess is that the others have finally learned to talk at a reasonable decibel and not spew their feelings out like it's too much cheap bourbon being puked back into a gutter on a Saturday night.

She nods once before adding, "When I saw your motorcycle light through the dark … I thought I was hallucinating." She says softly, shaking her head as she clearly relives that moment. Daryl can't blame her; its haunted his dreams since he brought her back to camp. He watches her toss and turn in her sleep and knows that she feels it, too.

"Must have been pretty rough out there." He says. She'll never be the same after that, will carry it around with her for a very long time. It'll change her in ways she can't see yet, can't envisage until its right there. None of them will be the same after this.

She shakes her head. "You have no idea." She says at length, feeling a treacherous tear slip down her cheeks as the stress and sheer magnitude of all that they have lost in the past few days finally hits her.

Before he can say anything she's crying then, silently weeping as the shock and stress of her ordeal pours out of her as tears and silent, still-dehydrated moans. He doesn't do anything, just lets her get it all out and shakes his head at her embarrassed apologies once she's finally done. He doesn't want to hear her apologise for staying alive when everyone else wrote her off as dead. He doesn't want her to apologise for weeping for what they have lost. He doesn't want her to apologise for feeling something for those who didn't make it. So they just sit together in the chilly darkness until her head drifts onto his shoulder and he lets himself listen to the sounds she makes when she sleeps.

The next morning, when she's awake and her eyes are red and puffy from the night before, she gently kisses him. It's not anything, really; a quick touch of her mouth to his. He barely feels her lips brush his but he knows that they're soft and warm and her hand lingers on his chest as she does it. It's not really anything, but it's there, all the same.

"What's that for." He says roughly, his eyes meeting hers.

"Thank you." She says simply.

He doesn't get it. "What for?"

She gives him a cautious smile. "For saving my life."

###

Predictably, and given their situation, it didn't take long for her to repay him.

They're aways up the road, trying to siphon gas from the cars that litter the backroads. There are still too many walkers and not enough ammo but right now its gas that's a more pressing concern because they don't have enough vehicles.

Andrea and Daryl are working together to try to gather what they can from the abandoned cars, which are deep enough in the woods to be fairly intact unpillaged by looters. There's even a key in one of them although neither of them dare start it for fear of attracting a walker. Andrea finds odds and ends: a few rounds here, some medication there, some clothes that look fairly robust (she discards them when she sees that the backs are stained with bloody handprints) while Daryl manages to fill half of a half-gallon gas can. It's not much, but it might be enough for them to get off this god-forsaken road and out of the forest.

There are two walkers that come from nowhere, both launching themselves at Daryl. Andrea's concealed in the car so they don't see her, all they see is the man crouched by the car with a gas can at his feet.

He dispenses with the first one easily enough but not until the second one's almost on top of him. He's reaching for his knife when Andrea's saves him the job, stepping behind the walker and jabbing her knife so viciously through the walker's head that the blade appears through its eye socket and drips blood onto the gravel next to Daryl's head.

"Guess this makes us even now, huh?" He asks as she holds out her hand to help him up.

"Guess so." She says, their hands lingering together for a fraction longer than necessary.

###

Andrea rides on the back of Daryl's motorcycle all the time now. To be sure, there aren't much room in the cars but since that day, when she saw the light come through the gloom, she hasn't felt truly safe anywhere else.

So she sits at his back while he sits ahead and she holds on tight for dear life, her eyes open to the world around them, the wind whipping at her hair and her cheek pressed at the nape of his neck as she lets the man with the wings on his back and the crossbow tucked at his side take them through this darkness.

FIN.


End file.
